


Factotum

by rowlyn



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Missing Scenes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowlyn/pseuds/rowlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inherent problem here, Tony thinks, is that he'd been in a near-death situation, had been kidnapped, had passed out from an excessive amount of alcohol in his system, and had made his first valuable contribution to the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries, all before he was fifteen years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Factotum

**Author's Note:**

> Sidenote: The Maria Stark in this fanfic is not the Maria Stark from the movie Captain America: Civil War. This whole fanfic - except for one scene (you may guess which) - was written long before CA:CW came out, I think sometime around 2013. Consider this a pre-CA:CW fanfic, set sometime in between Iron Man 2 and 3.
> 
> More about Maria in the end-notes because I don't want to end up spoiling my own fanfic.
> 
> (Warning for a small show of pretty disgusting misogyny, because Obadiah Stane.)

14.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Tony?" Rhodey asks.

Tony's head starts throbbing on cue. His vision turns red behind his eyelids. He reaches out, blindly, to drink the pain away with more alcohol, but his hand closes on empty air instead. The faint sound of rushing tap water reaches his ears, and Tony cracks his eyes open, turning his head to take in the familiar sight of Rhodey spilling what's left in the bottle down the drain.

The inherent problem here, Tony thinks, is that he'd been in a near-death situation, had been kidnapped, had passed out from an excessive amount of alcohol in his system, and had made his first valuable contribution to the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries, all before he was fifteen years old.

 

7.

It starts, as it usually does, with a bottle of alcohol — only this time it's scotch and not vodka, not wine, nothing cheap you'd get at the local store, when he was looking for brands he recalled seeing at some party — Budweiser, Jack Daniel, whatever got passed around back in the days, it's not like anyone really _cared_ what it was.

(Not after the first round of joints. Alcohol became secondary next to drugs.)

It starts with a bottle of alcohol, and a bathtub — only Tony doesn't for the life of him remember when or how he wound up in it. He remembers the funeral, he remembers arriving at the conscious decision not to let all the expensive alcohol in the liquor cabinet go to waste, but he doesn't remember the walk to the bathroom, or when Obie had decided to join him there, for that matter. All he knows is that if Jarvis were here, he'd have talked him into getting out of it already.

"Tony, get out of the goddamned tub," Obie says.

"Nope," Tony says — more like slurs, really, draws the word out, and Obie grimaces.

He says something else, but Tony's not really listening; it's the same song, on repeat, and he's drunk, for god's sake, he's sitting in a bathtub in his parents' house and has no idea how he got here, what's Obie angling for, anyway, does he want Tony to sign a contract? _Now_?

"You're fired," he tells Obie, gesturing with the bottle.

Obie oh-so-discreetly moves to take it out of his hand, but Tony swings it out of his godfather's reach, sloshing the last bit of what was left over his clothes.

"You can't fire me," Obie replies, gently. He has that distinctive long-suffering air about him, and Tony hates that, _hates_ it.

"Can do it soon, isn't that what this is about?" Tony asks, squinting up at Obie. "And then I'mma fire you and hire Jarvis. _A_ Jarvis," he catches himself, slapping the flat of his palm against the rim of the tub. "A different one."

"Tony," Obie starts, and stops.

"Jarvis gets shit done," he muses, and then he realizes how much worse it is to say the name out loud. "Although it's ' _got_ shit done' now, isn't it?" He laughs, and it hurts. It actually sounds pained. "It's weird, 'cause he's always been there. Here."

There's a long silence, in which Obie doesn't answer. Eventually he sighs, and moves to sit down on the floor, his back to the wall, settling in for the long haul.

 

6.

He builds and builds, because that's what he does best. It doesn't matter that he's only fourteen years old, he's been building stuff long before that.

Age has never mattered. It probably had to his mother, he can't count how many times he's heard her snarl and hiss at Howard that he's only _a child_ , _you can't do this, you can't make him — he could get_ _hurt, Howard, he could_ die.

Granted, he's never once heard her say, "What kind of father are you?" but it was pretty heavily implied.

In the end, they were just words to the Starks. Tony would like to think it had all been on Howard — but he knows he wasn't the easiest kid to have, and his mom did what she could, she really did. She despaired a bit, towards the end, and it showed, somehow. In her face, her eyes. Even her hair didn't look the same anymore, lacking that blond sheen, the natural lushness. She just looked so tired all the time.

Nobody cared to pay attention, because she never stopped being the wife of Howard Stark. She played the part well, she played the _public._ Mask firmly in place, smiling in all the right places, but her smile never reached her eyes.

Everybody knew Maria Stark, trophy wife of Howard Stark, a good twenty years younger, but nobody really _knew_ her.

Not for lack of trying.

When Tony was six years old, he built a jet-pack. The Starks were hosting one of their many parties, but this time, instead of the usual high society, there were primarily men present. The whole affair had a different air about it; it was more vulgar, more honest, what with buff men _roaring_ with laughter, and the smoke of cigars hung thick in the air. He slipped out onto the roof, aware of the click of heels following him. Then he hefted the jet-pack onto his back.

She saw him when jumped. She was right behind him when he took that step — platinum blond hair, red lips, brighter than the sun — but Tony couldn't bring himself to regret it, watching her alternately clutch at his arms and yell in his face in the aftermath, her voice high and breathless, cracking around the edges, some of the life seeping back into her eyes, the fire that had made up Maria Stark back in place — if only for a moment.

He couldn't explain how he'd built it, couldn't put the process into words. He didn't _have_ all the words back then, but he _knew_ he could make the thing work, knew he could fix and invent most of the stuff he wanted to — just as he can now, age fourteen and wandering the halls of MIT.

"Oh, no," Tony hears someone say. He looks up, just in time to avoid bumping into the guy who's bodily blocking the entrance to the lab.

"No, no, no, not this time," Big Guy says, because he _is_ big, compared to Tony. To be fair, Big Guy's a good seven years older. Tony tries to recall his name — something like Mike, Mark, Mickey, but the guy's wearing a Rolling Stones shirt, so he might just be thinking of the singer. "Not again, Tony."

"What do you mean, 'again'?" Tony demands. "Seriously, what does it mean, people kept grabbing me and steering me back in the other direction on my way here, what the hell am I missing?"

"It's eleven PM," Big Guy sighs. "It's eleven PM on a Saturday night, and I need this lab to be intact for the next couple of days, man. I have deadlines."

"I'm not drunk," Tony replies. "Wait, I wasn't drunk back _then,_ either. Does nobody understand how engineering works?"

"You went flying through the room and into a wall," Big Guy reminds him, sounding put out. "And took half the lab with you," he tacks on, dismayed.

"Oh, yeah," Tony remembers, a hint of laughter in his voice. MIT might encourage scientific discovery and commitment, but they're rather averse to the idea of structural damage. This time they actually resorted to _calling his dad_ , not knowing that it was really... the wrong dad to call, and Tony doesn't think he'll ever stop snickering at the memory.

"You electrocuted yourself," Big Guy tells him, like Tony had failed to notice that part. "You could have died."

Tony, in turn, lifts one foot and gestures at his shoe. "Rubber soles."

"Don't make me call reinforcements," Big Guy says, a warning lacing his voice. He brandishes his phone and shows it to him.

_See?_ The look on his face says. _I'm a man who means what he says._

He's got a very punch-able face, Tony decides.

"I got bad news for you," he says, not even bothering to sound sorry. "It is, as you said, Saturday night, and unlike me, Rhodey is well on his way to totally wasted."

Big Guy glowers at him.

"Sorry?" Tony tries, then, still not sounding or looking it. 

Thirty years later, he won't be able to remember much from MIT, for obvious reasons. The only good thing he'd taken away from it all was... Rhodey.

He left thrice as many people behind—

( _exactly_ three)

—but he's learned at an early age that he has to figure out who he can trust before he ends up in the backseat of a van or, less flatteringly, the trunk of said van.

It all just comes with the name.

 

5.

"This _is_ his son, right?"

Thug A is the one asking, while Thug B tries to capture Tony's flailing legs to tuck him into the trunk. Tony has a dubbing system; it's not overly imaginative, but Thug A is obviously the head of the pair, while Thug B does all the dirty work. He can't make out anyone else, but to be fair, there's a bag over his head and he's too busy kicking around and being a hostage; it's not like he can keep count.

Also, he's seven years old.

He's learned the meaning of the word 'ransom' at an early age.

"I mean, I'm not complaining, but this was almost too fucking easy," Thug A insists, as Thug B manhandles Tony into the trunk and slams the lid down. "Are you sure this isn't a trap?"

"Shut up," Thug B growls, and Tony quietly revises his opinion of Thug A and Thug B. He's also horribly relieved that the men don't have any noticeable foreign accent — he doesn't know why, but he ends up blaming his dad.

His mom would understand. She'd blame _that_ on the war.

Their voices fade away, and Tony immediately notices that the bag over his head is not actually tied close. He can easily slip the cotton off his head, which is both good and bad, for two reasons: bad, because his captors obviously don't care much about keeping their identities and faces hidden from him, which means they believe he won't be able to tell his parents about them; and good, because he now has both his eyes and hands to get himself out. If you don't want to be somewhere, you try to get out. Tony figures that's the whole idea behind his dad showing him how to pick a lock.

The good thing about car trunks is that they're made to be secure from the outside in, so it's easier to get _out_ without a key than it is to break _in_. The trunk is big, and Tony's small, hence there's enough room for him to scoot back and maneuver the carpet on the floor to get to the release cable inside the trunk lid. He pulls on it, hard, making sure to point it towards the driver's side, and the release pops.

 

3.

Six years old and he's moving into foreign territory, lifting his gaze hopefully to see his father looming over him. To see his eyes, intent and guarded all at once. His mouth, set in a grim line.

"Try this," Howard says, nudging pieces of the revolver in his direction. Tony reaches for them quickly, mindful to catch the faint smile that's now tugging at the corner of his father's lips.

 

2.

The tumbler cracks as it's flung across the room and into the opposite wall, scotch showering the carpet, the window, Dad's clothes. Tony feels droplets spraying his face. He barely notices. The taste of alcohol stings in the back of his throat, and he's doing his best not to gasp out loud at the bitter burn of it.

He startles hard when his mother suddenly hauls him up into her arms. She reaches up with one trembling hand, wiping the liquor from Tony's cheek and lips with her sleeve. 

"What is _wrong with you_ ," she spits at Howard, her voice shaking in its rage, its disgust. Tony lets out a dismayed sound and stares at the side of her face, because he's never heard her _sound_ like this, never seen her break character like _this_ in front of How— in front of Dad.

Tony doesn't dare look at Dad. He sits in his mom's arms, petrified down to his bones. He keeps his eyes on her cheek, her throat, watches her visibly pounding pulse, and then releases his breath in a relieved rush when she turns around with him in her arms and walks away. And away, and away, and for a moment Tony is convinced she's going to walk out, out of the house, out of this life, just walk and walk and walk, possibly forever, as far as she can get.

 

4.

"Maria." A female voice, Peggy's voice, imploring and worried all at once. "Maria, calm—"

Tony flinches when he hears something break— Dad would hate that, Dad doesn't like it when things break, an anxious part of his mind chatters incessantly. He holds very still, not daring to take a peek behind the door. She'd spot him instantly. She always does, and he's not supposed to eavesdrop.

That's something his _mom_ hates.

He wants to tell her, sometimes — _"I heard you crying."_ And not only that, he can _see_ it, too. Can tell by looking at her red eyes, the sniffles she always tries to cover up afterwards. He wants to tell her that he knows when she's sad because she always leaves the room. But she'd probably be angry with him if he did, so he can't make himself do it. Every time he thinks of telling her, he gets the same rotten feeling as when he's eavesdropping or accidentally breaking things.

Maria laughs, but her laugh isn't happy. It's angry and frustrated and desperate.

"I'm _always_ calm!" she cries, her voice tearful, shaking with irrepressible rage. "Don't you understand? It's all I do! Be calm, be composed, be—" The sound of shattering glass — a mirror, Tony knows instantly. He moves, alarmed and terrified— Mom, _Mom_ —

"Maria!" Peggy exclaims, concern ratcheted up a notch. Tony freezes on the spot. He strains to hear, but what he really needs is look. His pulse races in his throat, pounds and throbs in his ears. Is she hurt?

Maria takes a deep, shaky breath. "He made Tony—" And then her voice (seething, absolutely _livid_ ) cuts out, like she can't make herself continue.

"Oh," Peggy says, wary beyond belief. "Oh, God, what did he—"

"Doesn't matter, I'm going to kill him," Maria says, and Tony feels a hot rush of pure panic shoot through his entire body.

"You don't mean that," Peggy says calmly, like they've had this conversation a thousand times before. She doesn't sound horrified or worried, not in the slightest. It makes the tension seep out of Tony's limbs a little.

"You think I don't? You think I _care_?" Maria laughs, a mirthless sound. _About Dad,_ she doesn't say, but Tony hears it anyway. He goes all numb and cold, when just a second ago he felt hot and panicked.

_Mom doesn't like Dad. Mom's not happy. Mom hates it here._

"That's _my son!_ "

Her fierce, hoarse snarl cuts straight through Tony's thoughts like a sword.

"I can take a lot," she says, suddenly no longer reminiscent of an exploding supernova. The wrathful rage seems to have melted out of her, leaving her shaky and sorrowful.

"But if you expect me to—" She stops. Tony presses as close to the door as he can.

"He's my son." There's the fierceness, surging back. Tony swallows, his heart nearly beating out of his chest.

"I can't— Not Tony," she says, heartbroken and determined. "Never Tony."

 

1.

"Be assured that Madam Stark treasures you more than anyone else in the world, Anthony," Jarvis had told him, once. "You're everything she has, and she loves you more dearly than she'll ever love anything or anyone. I don't believe..." Jarvis trailed off, unsure. "She might seem reticent, absent. I don't think she has received or experienced much love in her life. But she loves you, as fiercely as she can." 

_As much as she's able to,_ Tony had heard.

He realizes, consciously, that he'd been a hurt, resigned little kid at that time. Still, whenever he thinks back on it now, he can't help but feel a stab of ferocious, all-consuming shame. 

It's why he suppresses the memory, more often than not. 

He's not a dweller. 

 

15.

"I'm serious, why?" Rhodey asks, observing Tony from a careful distance away. Tony inclines his head towards him slightly. "I see right through you, and I keep reminding you of that, but you just don't _get_ it. I don't know why I bother. Explain to me why I'm still sticking around. Hell, why is  _Pepper_ sticking around?"

"Ahhhh," Tony says, pointing a finger at Rhodey, and then abruptly runs out of words.

Rhodey snorts.

 

8.

He grits his teeth. "Stay," he says, and no, that's wrong, wrong voice, try a different one, it's not—

"You'll regret it if you leave," he says, steadier, sharper, and yeah, that's better. "I'm offering you the job. It's already yours. And you're gonna walk? You're actually going to walk out of here because some guy— what, talked you out of it? Obie doesn't get to decide who's going to be my _personal assistant_. Three hours from now, you'll think back on this, and—"

She stares at him, her eyes slightly wide, though she's obviously still trying to maintain her composure, to stay professional, standing tall and proud, wound tight, her back ramrod-straight — her posture exceeds perfection, and Tony doesn't know how that's possible but it _does_ , and he's equally sure it was acquired through years of practice.

Virginia Potts is a woman who could probably travel through hell itself and come out on the other side without a single strand of hair out of place, eternally dressed in outfits not unlike the one she's wearing right now — a crisp, minimalist suit that fits her tall, slender figure like a goddamn glove, heels so high they aren't mere heels anymore but rather embody a message, deadly weapons in their own right. The whole ensemble exudes steely determination and fierce confidence, everything about her just _screams_ competence, and Tony took notice, sitting up a little higher in his chair. Obie, for his part, turned his head away, instantly dismissive.

He chews on the inside of his cheek. This feels important, somehow. This feels — it feels right. He stands there, his arms hanging listlessly at his sides, letting her size him up. He's always been an awful judge of character, but the expression on her face is so open, her eyes wide and genuine, that it makes something in his chest ache.  

She's too close to that goddamn door. Too close to walking out.

Her eyes narrow as she stares him down some more, and Tony can pinpoint the exact moment she makes up her mind. He awards her another point, because that's _good_ , it's really...it's good. Her expression clears. Her shoulders draw back. She turns gracefully, pivoting on one blood-red stiletto, her long legs eating up the distance.

_Model,_ Tony thinks, his mouth going dry, then hastily corrects himself: _Former model._

"Where do I sign?" she asks, and the tightness in his chest dispels, finding a way out. He offers her a pen. Shoots her a smile.

It's somewhat steady.

 

9.

Pepper walks into his penthouse, her heels clearly audible against the hardwood, and Obie raises his head. He quirks an eyebrow, then looks sideways at Tony.

Tony looks right back.  

Obie snorts. "Right." He balls up his burger's greasy wrapper, tossing it in the general direction of the trash bin with a sharp flick of his wrist. He misses by, like, a mile. Tony claps sarcastically, and Obie points a meaty finger at Tony.

"I'll keep the job ad up, you get _this_ ," he tilts his head in Pepper's general direction, "out of your system."

It's an order, really. Tony doesn't know how he does it, but Obie's got a gift for shaping even the most innocuous statements into orders.

_Barbados sure is sunny this time of year,_ Obie would say, which was code for _You're getting on my last nerve, boy, I need a distance of at least two thousand miles between us for the next two weeks._

_Barbados is sunny all the time, that's Barbados' thing,_ Tony would retort, and then be boarding his private jet five hours later. 

Obie had pulled that shit last week. Tony's unpacked bags are still sitting by the piano.  

 

10.

"I'm not sleeping with you," Pepper says as soon as Tony's within speaking distance.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. By the look on Pepper's face, the faint flush that's crawling up her throat, Tony doesn't do a good job of keeping the mirth from showing on his face. 

"I was about to order a drink. Scotch," he says, and Pepper startles when he reaches around her to slip the waiting bartender a fifty. "But that's good to know," he tells her, winking. 

She rolls her eyes, taking a rather large sip of her own martini. "Just making that clear," she says primly.

Tony narrows his eyes, sizing her up. She looks back at him serenely over the rim of her cocktail glass, long, wavy, fiery red locks of hair tumbling over narrow shoulders. Absently, he notices that she becomes even more gorgeous the longer he looks at her. The bigger part of his brain is busy calculating the probabilities of her having overheard Obadiah's asshole line. 

He'd forgotten about Obadiah's assumption the moment the man had left the room, but now, well.

Now it's a challenge, isn't it. 

 

11.

She turns him down every single time. 

 

12.

When Pepper actually gets into bed with him, she does it of her own accord, without being asked.

Faintly, from seemingly far away, he hears the click of the door opening, hears someone shift on the spot. He's too busy staring at the ceiling with empty, glassy eyes. He's not aware of anything but the taste of ash in the back of his gullet, the taste of metal and smoke and blood and gravel. His own bile. Damp earth, and — more blood, really, he's surprised he's not constantly spitting up his own blood, what with the car battery that's lodged in his chest. 

The light filters in from where Pepper's got the door open a crack, but the room still gets darker by the second, Tony realizes. It doesn't make any sense, usually someone's vision adapts to the darkness. But his' is just getting darker, it's almost all the way to pitch-black. It's cold, too, getting colder, and he wants to ask Pepper to close the door, because she's letting in the cold, it's zero five degrees outside—

She dutifully slips the door shut, then, and walks quietly towards his bed. _Thanks_ , he wants to say, but can't make himself talk. Can't open his mouth, his throat's completely closed up. She lifts his blanket up, and he wants to protest, again, because the fucking _cold_ —

She slides into his bed, and his frantic thoughts subside. He smells apples. Something else fruity or flowery, he doesn't know, but it's subtle. He's always thought she smelled so good — it's like she's always just stepped fresh out of the shower, and he can't get enough of it. Can't help but turn his body towards her, as she touches her soft skin to his, slings one long leg over his hip. 

He buries his face in her neck, in her hair, and takes his first, unobstructed, clean breath of the whole night. 

 

13.

He waits until she comes down from it. Until her chest stops heaving and her full-throated gasps, those little vulnerable noises she keeps making in-between them, die down. He waits a while, mindful not to lick or brush his mouth against her skin. He knows that drives her crazy, the feel of his bristly goatee as he puts his tongue on her, and he doesn't want to make it worse. She's already shaking like a leaf as it is. 

That one probably hurt a little, but she likes it. 

He turns his wrist, wrapping the leftover strands of her hair up around his fist as well, and then _tugs_. Not too hard, but none too gently either.

Her eyes fly up to lock onto his. 

"One more time," he murmurs, and her breath rasps wetly in the back of her throat as he spares a moment to thrust and slide along her slick cunt-lips, before slipping back inside her wet heat in one smooth, hard stroke. 

 

16.

"Rhodey," Tony says, rubbing his forehead with the pads of his fingers. "Rhodey. Rhodey. Usually people drink to _avoid_ thinking. Don't do this. Don't make me think."

It sounds dangerously like a plea to his own ears, and Tony swallows, hard.

Rhodey just stares him down, arms crossed over his broad chest. Then he sags.

"Fine," Rhodey says on a sigh. "Have it your way."

"I didn't know you were coming," Tony offers. Vaguely, he's aware of the little ball of anxiety unfurling in the pit of his belly as Rhodey unfolds his arms, an air of defeat around him. It's there in the slope of his shoulders, in the tired lines of his face.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," Tony repeats, trying his hardest to keep the desperation out of his voice. 

"You've been having some trouble lately," Rhodey says, as if that answers anything. As if it answers _everything_. Tony's heart swells with some unnamed emotion. If he had to put a name on it, he'd call it pure, unadulterated love. "What annoys me is that you're always drunk _before_ I get here. Your coping mechanisms need some serious work, man."

Tony ducks his head, lips quirking up into a fragile, helpless smile.

"I mean, is that how it is? Trouble happens, problem pops up, you go by order: first, alcohol, second, workshop, third, Rhodey."

"I've improved," Tony points out. "Remember that time when it was first, alcohol, second, put on the suit, third, throw a giant party, fourth, wreck the house?"

"What am I, chopped liver? Because I remember me kicking your ass in between the third and fourth."

"Sixth, steal my suit and never give it back," Tony sing-songs. He laughs when Rhodey abruptly turns on his heels and walks away — leaving for real, this time. "Hold up," Tony says, getting up, and Rhodey — strong, loyal, beautiful Rhodey, stops. 

He slings an arm around Rhodey's shoulders when he gets close enough, feeling warm all over when Rhodey doesn't shrug him off. Rhodey wraps a steadying arm around Tony's waist as they slowly head up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> When it comes to CA:CW, I was kinda meh about the casting of Hope Davis, because in my head Maria Stark's always been way younger than Howard Stark, first and foremost. Let's be honest, that's how that guy rolls. He's also incredibly shallow, so my personal headcanon's always been that Maria could be mistaken for a 50s pin-up--someone who naturally got a lot of shit from everyone, but was actually the toughest, most resilient woman you'll ever meet. She's also the one who taught Tony how to love. (I might not agree with the MCU when it comes to the casting of Maria Stark, but they got one thing right: Tony Stark would kill a man for his mother, you guys.)
> 
> And the three people I'm referencing that Tony left behind at MIT are Tiberius Stone, Sunset Bain and Maya Hansen.


End file.
